"Larry I think we're lost. This doesn't look like we're heading in the right direction towards the hills."
"We're not lost Florante. I'm taking you out on a dinner date." He said casually, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
I nearly coughed my lungs out.
"Larry Davis you better turn this car around right now or you can just drop me over here. It's getting late. Nana is probably dead-worried by now." I'm proud to have thought of that excuse.
"No, she's not."
"I'm sorry?"
"I phoned your house earlier and spoke with Felomina Mendoza."
"And...?"
"I told her you're sick and I took care of you."
"And...?"
"I told her I'm gonna kidnap you for a moment so we could both have our dinner in French Riviera Restaurant downtown."
"What did she say?"
"She said how much did you pay me to go out with you...I like her...your Nana. She's..."
"Crazy! You both are crazy!"
"Don't be such a drag, you still owe me one..."
"For nursing me back to health? Well, thank you! Can we turn around now?"
"That one and the No-Florante-No-Show incident in the Library and in the Molave tree..."
"I thought I've already made amends on that?
"I did not say you've been forgiven, did I?"
"So you're blackmailing me right now, is that it?"
"I prefer kidnapping...it sounds more cool and tough..."
"Shut-up shithead! Kidnappers don't take their victims out for dinner in the fanciest restaurant in town! And if you ever attempt to pose as a kidnapper, try not to smile too often cos you look more like a stupid dog than an actual outlaw."
"If I can't be a kidnapper, what am I then?" He cleared the loose curls hanging on his forehead.
"I don't know Larry. Maybe half-human half-crazy."
" Cool..."
"What do you mean cool!"
"Cos I'm crazy about you anyway..."
I choked.
We remained silent for the rest of the trip downtown.
The city is bathed with the kaleidoscope of artificial lights. People are pacing from every direction oblivious to the soft trickling rain that reflects the heterogeneous mixture of man-made lights like scattered pieces of a disco ball.
The phosphorus moonlight swells above the cloudy skies, throwing lucid lights against the backdrop of tall buildings.
There is a brooding hullabaloo in the streets caused by hundreds of people hurrying to come home. I looked at the people around me and thought how many of them have traversed the same streets over and over again. Do they ever think that the world is huge and it's sad to die in the same corner? Do they ever wish to watch the moonlight over the hills undeterred by the light-pollution?
"We're here Plato," Larry said mockingly, snapping me out of the trance.
"You look like The Thinker statue. What were you thinking?" said he referencing my solemnity to the masterpiece of Auguste Rodin in Paris, which was based on the image of my favorite Renaissance poet, Dante Alighieri.
"Nothing..."
"You think a lot Florante..."
"You talk a lot, Larry..."
French Riviera is a fancy restaurant that the working class like me could only ever dream of dining. But here I am being kidnapped by an elite shithead to dine with him.
He must've been really bored these days.
"Bonsoir" A waiter wearing a tuxedo greeted us with a warm calculated smile.
"Bonsoir" replied Larry. His accent shifted and sounded sophisticated.
The waiter looked at me expecting the same greeting but I'm afraid my working-class tongue would not be able to pull it through so I just nodded.
A classical music piece is being played on the piano. Mozart? Bach? or Schubert? I can't tell. I suddenly feel intimidated. It's like the music on the piano is not meant to be heard by the pair of bourgeois ears on both sides of my head.
I picked up the menu and dropped my jaw. The words that were written there were unreadable to my bourgeois eyes.
*Coq Au Vin
*Cassoulet
*Beef Bourguignon
*Flamiche
*Confit de Canard
*Nicoise Salad
The waiter stood beside me waiting for my order and I'm sweating really hard and wish the earth would crack-open and swallow me whole instead.
Larry might have sensed my predicament and started ordering on my behalf.
"Soupe a l'oignon, Beef bourguignon, Confit de Canard and Vegan Mushroom Bourguignon with Potato Cauliflower Mash..." He read the orders like he's been ordering this stupid menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. There's just too much mixture of vowels, consonants and silent consonants on the menu that I feel like my tongue would twist if I ever attempted to read them out loud.
Another tuxedo-wearing waiter came and poured wine on each of our wine-glass.
"Stop, I don't drink..." the waiter looked at me with a calculated shock in his eyes and so did Larry.
"What?" I said looking at him.
"What?" He replied.
"You're laughing at me."
"It's cos you're cute! Florante Mendoza does not drink. That's cute."
I rolled my eyes.
The dish came 20 minutes sharp as promised and Larry has had his third glass of wine while waiting.
The dishes look gorgeously alien in my eyes. They smell like melted cheese and the aroma of all the spices used to cook them made me salivate even more.
I was done with my dish in no time and burped really loud that the people from other table looked at us with their calculated disgust.
Larry let out a suppressed laughter.
I blushed. Even dark-skinned monkies like me can blush too.
Everything in the room feels calculated and measured. The warm incandescent lights on the ceiling, the serving size of the food on the plate, the level of wine in Larry's glass, the smile of the waiters, the voices of the people around.
I felt a sudden urge to stand up and curse at their perfect asses.
I looked at Larry and the way he chewed every piece of pasta on his plate looked like a form of art that's meticulously carried-out.
I'm so done with this restaurant. I just wanna go home and eat Nana's adobo and rice with my bare hands.